Kizz & Tell is a combination of item #17 on my Life List (Develop an erotic fiction web site) and a continuation of the G-spot column I used to write at The Women's Colony. From fantasies to frank discussion I'm just trying to re-create a really great conversation with your friends. I hope you'll join in!

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

I had coffee with Tony Comstock on Monday. I was unable to attend the event he was to speak at but I did have time to buy him coffee so I got a personalized preview. There's lots to say because I always learn something new when we chat but the extreme distillation is "we need to be positive about sex, all kinds, to everyone." So that's what I was thinking about when I looked for a recommendation for today. (Tony kindly gifted me with some of his films to review so look for those in later editions of the Resource Room.)

You may or may not know that I love TV. That love may or may not be a healthy one. I will watch, for the most part, any fictional programming you put up on the small screen at least once. (Thank you Eastbound & Down, Always Sunny in Philadelphia and anything starring David Spade for being exceptions that prove the rule.) I tell you this to explain why I'm about to recommend two shows and then criticize them.

I have watched every single episode of The L Word and Queer As Folk (US*). Some of you are cheering now, some are weeping.

Here's the thing, these shows are very poorly written, sometimes poorly acted and riddled with bizarre stunt casting and plot twists. Somewhere in the 3rd season the characters in The L Word just stop doing anything remotely connected to the boundaries of their characters in the first two seasons and they catapult off in new directions without rhyme or reason. At one point in QAF a guy with one ball breaks his arm and still continues to participate in a charity bike ride...in Canada. It's like when the Facts of Life cast went to Paris, we know it's a bad idea but we love them so we watch anyway.

I still think you should watch these shows. While we continue to work to highlight real, normal sex and real, normal relationships in a society awash in airbrushed, surgically enhanced people play acting their lives for marginal fun and short term profit The L Word and QAF stood front and center to bridge the gap.

The L Word is, admittedly, cast mostly with beautiful people who obligingly have sex that includes surefire orgasms at least twice per episode. As the show progressed, though, they filled in their gaps with different shapes, sizes and sexual identities of people. There were women of different ages, hues and nationalities. There were characters of different life experience and with different goals and, just like in real life, (nearly) everyone had sex. Sometimes I hated it when they did (Jenny, bah!) and sometimes I begged for more (Shane, call me!) but, in the course of (relatively) normal lives we also got to see the sex.

I wouldn't presume to speak to why Queer as Folk seemed more reluctant to expand their casting choices. The show remained steadfastly white, under 40 and carved out of expensive marble (even the token lesbian couple). But beautiful people, according to the writers, have lives and problems and sex, too. Sex within commitment, sex on the side of commitment, masturbation, single sex, unprotected sex, sex with HIV, sex with prostitutes, sex with friends, sex with drugs, sex that evolves with the participants, lots and lots of sex. While the overall production values of the show are perfectly average when shooting the sex scenes the whole series somehow stepped up their game.

I feel I'm not making my point. Did you ever watch Spin City? OK, so Michael J. Fox's character, Mike, was single and a big muckity muck in the NYC Mayor's office. One member of the large and wonderful supporting cast (Emmy nominated Connie Britton, I'm looking at you), was Carter, a single, gay staffer played by Michael Boatman. Over the course of the many episodes you watched can you give a round estimate to the number of times you saw Mike kiss someone, lie in a bed with someone, emerge disheveled from a bedroom with someone, or even emerge from under/behind a desk with someone? I'm going to just lowball it at 1.5 times per episode. There must have been an episode or two when he didn't do any of that and in a lot of them it was constant. Close your eyes and reflect again on the series. How many times did you see Carter in any of those situations? If you guessed zero I'd agree with you. I'm not putting Spin City up as a shining example of portrayals of hetero sex, either, but it's representative of the kind of sex we usually see on TV whether on something tame like this or a certified edgy series like The Wire (Ever see Omar Little getting it on? I thought not.).

So I'm recommending that we revel in shows that give us a variety of images of romance and sex. The L Word and Queer As Folk broke ground by being such popular shows while focusing on a. homosexual main characters and b. sex. Were they artistically exquisite? Perhaps not. But they were glorious fun, an emotional roller coaster and well worth your time and support. Treat yourself! And give Shane and Brian a little kiss from me.

*I have not seen even one clip from the original UK Queer As Folk. Anyone care to warn or recommend?

Monday, September 27, 2010

@ToMotherNature wrote to me the other day, "I was talking with a friend the other day and we got to wondering: what are the privacy boundaries between couples? By that I mean: do you close the bathroom door, or do you leave it open no matter what you are doing? She and her husband have no boundaries; my husband and I do. We always close the bathroom door."

It's so interesting that this came up at this point. I recently read The Help where bathroom usage and shared bathroom usage plays an enormous part. It's not at all romantic in the novel but it's crucial.

I live alone with extremely needy animals so, frankly, my door is always open. If I were to choose to close it I know it wouldn't stay that way for even the length of a quick pee. As a matter of fact I actually test the door to make sure it closes properly before company comes. I always (always!) put the lid down when I'm done but never close the door at home. I have close friends who I'm totally comfortable peeing in front of. Too many houses full of people with only one or two toilets, if I've got to pee and you're showering or drying your hair and we both need to leave in 15 minutes then we're going to have to get over it. Hell, we've even shared stalls in public bathrooms if we've felt that we needed a little company.

I do have my lines, though. I don't generally pee in front of anyone else when I have my period because I use pads and there's a level of showing off all that blood that makes me feel weird and I won't poop in front of anyone. For years if there was someone else in a public rest room while I was "dropping the kids off at the pool" I'd have to plug my ears because if I couldn't hear it then I could pretend it wasn't happening...or something. I don't know, welcome to my brain, there is no map so you might want to sprinkle some bread crumbs while you walk.

Whenever this topic comes up I remember the first time a guy took a dump in front of me. We were flirtily hanging out and probably planning to have sex. I think he'd been at work so he decided to take a shower and I was talking to him, sitting on the bathroom counter in the fancy Soho loft where he stayed. Mid conversation he pops out of the tub, sits down and drops one while we chatted. I won't say I was horrified, because I wasn't, but I was damn well surprised, I'll tell you that.

I think it's nice to have the option of your closed bathroom door and to have it respected. For my money, I'd like to know that we can close the door and it will stay that when then one day if the bathroom user feels so comfy that s/he leaves the door open then that's a choice to be made from that side of the doorknob. In other words, don't walk in on me in the bathroom, it won't end well. I keep sharp objects and dangerous chemicals in there and I don't like surprises. Knock, ask, it doesn't cost anything to be polite. Or cautious.

Where are your boundaries on the subject of toileting? More interesting than that why are they?

Friday, September 24, 2010

“Sit,” I order, afraid speaking will ruin the spell we’re working but unwilling to risk any miscommunication at this point. He sits. His cock stands, twitching up and back. At the last moment I turn my back to Tim, reach between my legs to grasp him and slide his cock all the way into me, sitting, relieved on his thighs. We both groan and stay quiet for a moment. Only for a moment, though. It’s impossible not to move. The biology makes it impossible. Tim squirms under me and I have to steady myself, find toe grips, hold on to his knees in front of me. I can get enough leverage to raise up and down by going up on my tip toes but it’s awkward, uncontrolled and I won’t have enough stamina. Motherhood makes a lot of parts of you stronger but not your toes. I wish I hadn’t thought that why do I have to bring up motherhood now? I wish I wasn’t a mother.I really wish I hadn’t thought that.It’s not true.Not most of the time.I miss my brain though. I miss not having control of it. Not having it be entirely my own body. One part of me is always doing the physics and math and sociology that keeps my family moving forward, growing, landing safely washed and brushed into bed every night. Things that require concentration - balancing the checkbook, writing, coming - don’t work as well anymore.God bless Tim!He’s reaching around, scraping his fingernails up my inner thigh, bringing my brain back. It feels so good, that anticipation, the knowing where he’s going but being scared he’ll never get there. His other hand is applying firm pressure to my shoulder blade, tipping me forward for a better angle. It makes me wobble dangerously but he catches me by the arm and the leg, widening the V of my legs and dropping me soundly onto the base of him. “hold one, one sec, I think...I can...” there definitely isn’t enough of my brain for full sentences. There’s a reason they don’t make pornos look like real sex. No one wants to watch this weird reality. I manage to steady myself with my hands on his kneecaps. If I grip the cross rail on the bottom of the chair with the nearly prehensile toes of one foot I can get the other foot flat on the floor and use the strength of that leg. The places he’s reaching and stroking from this perspective are sort of new and odd. It makes me smile. I even giggle a little because it’s so absurd in a delicious way. I find that if I reach back with that left hand and hold onto Tim’s forearm I can get a little more length to my strokes. He groans, “Oooh, yeeeah,” behind me. His free hand caresses the globes of my ass. He’s not slapping it, it’s not aggressive in any way but not light either. It’s like he’s polishing my cheeks to a high gloss. I love the way it feels when they separate on the out stroke, it makes me arch my back. I’d purr if I could. Tim’s hips are jerking involuntarily and out of rhythm. We’re all higgelty piggelty in our disorganized desperation. It’s been a while. A long while. I hadn’t realized quite how long. I know what gets Tim off. He knows the same about me. We have, for maybe as much as a year, done just that every time we’ve bothered to have sex. We can get undressed, get wet, get off and get to sleep in under 20 minutes and both feel as though we’ve fulfilled the obligation. Balanced precariously on Tim’s lap and the edge of climax I wonder how we could have settled for that. Abruptly he yanks on my arm, flipping my legs forward and holding my body against his chest. His arm crosses my torso, one hand gently engulfing a breast. I feel his breath on my ear lobe when he quietly taunts, “You first.” “No,” I demur.“Please,” he urges, “show me,” and he presses me closer to him. Like this he can see over my shoulder. I cover his hand with mine. “Pinch.” I order. He pinches my nipple gently. “Harder,” I say with an edge to my voice. I use my one foot up, the other down strategy to stand and let him slide out of me.A noise seeps out of both of us so I hurry. I dip my fingers into my vagina, getting them good and wet. I slide nature’s decadent lube all over my lips. It’s already dripping a little down my thighs. I worry my clit a little, widening circles feel glorious. “Go on,” I tell him, “back in.” He releases me forward a little then takes some license, finding my already open lips with his fingers before firmly placing the head of his cock in their place. I sink gratefully back down and increase the pressure on that important button. Fingers lightly running over my areola he asks, “Again?” “Yes.” That makes me rub harder. “Again.” He does. “Again.” He is blessedly compliant. Blindly my idle hand reaches up over my head. I want to grasp the back of his neck, I’m bending mine over his shoulder. He’s got a nice rhythm going on my nipple and I can feel myself nearly going. “Hard!” I order and he clamps down like a vice, 3 more circles and I cry out like a weird bird. My face is flushed and I can feel my heart hammering.Tim can’t wait. I can feel him trying but he can’t. He pushes me forward, hand on my shoulder blade. It’s insistent. I fold forward and can’t even explain how we get there. It’s a kind of sliding out of the chair and onto the floor. We don’t want to separate again but he needs to be in charge. My knees hit the floor and we fail, popping apart like cork and bottle. He loses all patience then. Hands on my ass he forces me forward while he kicks the chair out from behind him. He hunches over me and lets his penis prod and prod until it slides home. I’m still a little weak from the orgasm and just surrender to it all. I lay my cheek on the linoleum, keep arching my back as high as I can get it and just let my arms flop forward onto the floor. Fingers splayed out across the top of my ass he pounds into me with the short, quick, nearly erratic strokes of a man on the edge and, just as I’m thinking I might reach back and touch myself he actually shouts and comes. Trying to be courteous he still falls over onto me but catches most of his weight on his forearms. We melt into my dirty kitchen floor. After a few moments of nothing but panting Tim chuckles. “You OK?” he asks.“Mm hmm, you?” I can’t even open my eyes.“Yup.”I can’t help thinking...I won.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

A young man and woman were standing on a busy sidewalk, talking. They were dressed in hip clothes and artfully distressed shoes and coats that probably cost as much as my rent. As I approached he said to her, "I pulled out. Pre-cum is a myth. I'm not havin' that baby."

The woman laughed.

I would not, somehow, have guessed that hipsters would be so underinformed.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Interestingly I am so unnerved by the brouhaha surrounding the book I want to recommend that I am nearly speechless. It is, you see, a book about a teenager who finds herself unable to speak after she is raped.

The book is Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson and it is not pornography. I'm not telling you that because I think you're stupid or because being recommended here means that something will necessarily be titillating. I'm telling you because a professor in Missouri is campaigning to have Speak banned because he classifies it as pornography. The two sex scenes in the book depict rape and he thinks that makes it soft core porn.

On the recommendation of my friend, JRH, I read Speak a couple of years ago and went on to read some of Anderson's other work. I love YA fiction and her work is some of the cream of that particular crop. Speak isn't an easy subject but it is an important one. Banning this book, on any grounds, is tantamount to insisting that rape victims everywhere be silent about their assault. You don't have to believe me, read this article on Blogher to see what the author found in the back of her local library's copy of Speak.

Thanks to Sassymonkey for writing that post on Blogher and bringing my attention to the issue. If you're on Twitter please use the hashtag #SpeakLoudly in support of Ms. Anderson, her book and victims of sexual assault everywhere.

Monday, September 20, 2010

I was struck this morning by a phrase from this article on Blogher. It's a throwaway, tangential to the subject of the article, about an alleged sex tape that came out during the divorce proceedings of a celebrity and the author asides, "you would think that in this day and age people take the camcorder out of the bedroom, but apparently not in this case." [sic]

If I'm perfectly honest my hackles went straight fucking up.

I'll agree that I'm sick of every celebrity on the face of planet earth getting "caught" with a sex tape. When you have a certain amount of notoriety it's probably not a bad idea to take a step back before you turn on your recording device and ask yourself why this particular activity is important to your partner. It's absolutely within the realm of possibility that they get a kick out of watching themselves have sex on screen but there's also a chance they're scamming you. It sucks and no one should have to think about it when all they're working on is a good old roll in the hay but it's a fact of life and, frankly, it has been since the first camera. It's just easier to disseminate the information these days. Not to mention harder to retrieve it once it's out there.

On the other hand I think a blanket disapproval of recording acts of sex and sensuality is fucking ridiculous. If you don't like doing something like that? Don't do it! And if you do like it may I strongly recommend that you only engage in this sort of performance with someone you trust. Not like, "I'd absolutely trust her to pick out fruit for me at the market" but "I'd trust him with my deepest, most closely held secrets." Because there's a third hand to this argument. There always is, isn't there?

I made a sex tape once. It was pretty tame as these things go, I guess. I was administering a blow job and the camera was at hand and he wanted to tape it for his own later viewing pleasure. I trusted him in all the ways I'd have asked someone else if they trusted a partner before allowing their techniques to be preserved for posterity. Quite seriously I cannot believe anyone else would give two hoots about seeing it, it was the process not the product that felt exciting. Although, now that I think about it, I've never actually watched the tape. I was too embarrassed at the time and it never really came up again other than a quick debate about custody so maybe it's the hottest thing ever and I could be a superstar and this selfish prick is depriving me of my fame and fortune. Damn him! OK, probably not. We don't speak anymore. Last I knew he had the tape. He could do anything he wants with those few minutes of one non-descript evening. I don't think he will for a number of reasons (his family, he's not at all tech savvy, it was actually on tape so has probably degraded quite a bit) but he could if he wanted to. Relationships change. You might trust someone completely at the moment and a year or two or ten later the story might be quite different. You never know, I get that.

I still don't think it's stupid to enjoy recording our sexual exploits. Is it a bit dangerous? Sure it is and to varying degrees depending on who we are and how we live the rest of our lives. But it's not stupid.

What about you, ever been taped? Any regrets? Would you do it again? Or for the first time? I promise I won't ask you to share your highlight reel!

Friday, September 17, 2010

It had been my idea so I had to make it work somehow. Tim wasn’t convinced yet. He’s more the spontaneous type. I used to be, too, but for the last month spontaneous had bought us staggered bed times, angry cold shoulders, kid-devised interruptions and a host of other unavoidable good enough reasons not to have sex.

All those magazines and self help people tell you to schedule time for everything with your spouse, even sex. So I did. I convinced him to take an early lunch and come home from 11 to noon. With the kids in day care from 9:30 to 12:30 I could swing 45 minutes to an hour for us uninterrupted before I had to pick them up.

Now, at 10:30, one load of laundry in the wash, one in the dryer and only half of my freelance project properly proofread I wasn’t sure this was going to work. I had too much to do. But I’d made such a big whopping deal out of it that I had to. I hadn’t made the bed, this way we’d use the dirty sheets and I’d get a fresh set on before bed tonight.

While I was writing I hadn’t been able to help thinking about what I should wear. Currently I’m sporting jeans with decorative syrup swirls from breakfast and a t-shirt with our plumber’s slogan across the left tit. Apparently these days with your copper piping and high prices you get a tee. My sweat socks were mismatched, too. Not exactly making my case here. So I kicked the closet door open with my foot and perused the selection while I hit save and sent the attachment to my editor.

Half of this stuff doesn’t fit, the other half just doesn’t fit well. My two jobs are mom and freelance website marketing writer. Neither one requires a uniform of any kind. I can see a tiny swatch of seersucker, though. I don’t recognize it. When I get it untangled from the back of the closet it turns out to be a longish belted shirtdress I probably haven’t worn in ten years. It used to be my hip summer late-night-at-the-local-bar outfit. It hung off me and I never wore a bra with it. That’s probably why Tim loved it so much. With no hope at all I shimmy out of my jeans and plumber tee and give it a try. It certainly doesn’t hang off me but it fits. These breasts go braless no more, however. I find something not exactly dingy that works under the dress. There’s a rip at the seam that holds the skirt to the top. It’s right on the side and I feel sure a roll of fat will poke through it. By now it’s 11, though, it’ll have to do. Oh, wait, my underwear looks like a hand me down from my grandmother, no my great grandmother. I’m not wearing a thong, not even to make a point. You know, better to not wear anything at all. That’s sexy, right? Sexier if I’d shaved the landing strip I suppose but too late for that.

11:10 and he’s not here. I go down to the basement and switch the laundry, bring the dry stuff to the living room to fold.

At 11:20 I hear the door but no voice. I come into the kitchen to see Tim staring into a full refrigerator.

“Hey,” I venture.

“Hey,” he shoots back dispassionately. “We got anything to drink?”

“Sure,” I lean past him and pull out a bottle of water.

He drinks, glugging the cold water. His shirt is untucked, no tie or jacket. I have an impulse to tell him the shirt is all wrinkly but drag myself back to the task at hand. It’s incredibly awkward standing together knowing what we’re here to do. This should be easier since we know each other so well, right? Or the awkward should be arousing, that’s why dating works.

Tim nudges the refrigerator door shut with his elbow and just looks at me. I realize that he’s purposely not going to help me. He wants this to fail. He wants to win more...more maybe than he wants me. This realization makes me livid and it makes tears pop up in my eyes which is infuriating too. The only way to keep him from seeing this, knowing I’m rattled, is to act.

I sort of lamely push him back against the fridge. His impact knocks magnets and artwork off the door and we both hitch for a moment. I struggle with the impulse to pick it all up and put it away. Neat rows of lettered and numbered magnets, a task at which I know I can be successful.

His eyes flick to the floor and that affords me some glimmer of invisibility in which to soldier on. With a light, tip-toed step I lean against him and kiss his lips. This, too, is awkward at first. We’ve become unpracticed. We’ve let ourselves become unpracticed. That makes me sad. I have memories of the time when we kissed for hours on end in doorways and cars and the bathrooms at parties. It’s like riding a bike. A bike painted by emotion with resentment tassels on the handlebars. But I can remember so I can run my tongue along his teeth, cold from the water. I can tease his tongue, nip his lips. I can, after a moment, find enough of a rhythm that I can concentrate on my hands, currently limp as day old fish fillets on his shoulders. I press my palms to his chest and draw them down, firm, just a hint of fingernails, straight down to his thighs then back under his shirt. In the dark doorways of a warehouse in the middle of the night a lifetime ago I would hook my fingers in the waistband of his jeans and hold on for dear life, carried away by the promise of his kisses.

I wouldn’t say at this point that I’m winning but he does at least seem to be in the game. He moves his hands, grabs my biceps and I gasp. He’s still holding the cold, wet water bottle. We snap apart and both just look at it. We both keep our eyes on the bottle as he rolls it over my upper arm and brings it to rest on my breast. It’s so cold the breath gets sucked out of me but he doesn’t move it. I have to close my eyes. My fingers curl around his waist band, thumbs digging down in front, finding his erection creeping up.

This is still my show, though, so I press on. I lean in for another kiss while I begin the dismantling of his button fly. Tim pushes me back enough that he can keep the bottle rolling across my chest to the other breast, one handed he struggles to unbutton the top of my dress. We’re both making decent progress but he’s impatient, grunting and growling into my mouth.

At some point the water bottle slips from his hand, bouncing off my hip and rolling away. Only a very small part of me thinks about filing that away so I remember to clean it up later. At least I’m winning against myself. And, it turns out, against Tim’s fly. I pull his boxers down rather than pulling him through the slot. When his pants come crashing down I narrowly miss losing a toe to the keys, change and other miscellany that weigh his pockets down.

When I start to kneel he won’t let me. He uses a hand on one arm and pinches my opposite nipple. Somehow he has a button or two undone and has one hand crammed at an awkward angle into my utilitarian bra. I defy him slightly bending over to put my mouth on his cock. I need to coat it with saliva, make it easier for my hand.

Tim is frantically pleating my skirt, gathering it up toward my waist. I can’t pay attention to his progress because I’m concentrating on my tongue and his cock. I want to make sure I touch every inch of it but I’m easily distracted by the ridge of the head, the way my lips can fully kiss the tip, the exact place he touches the back of my throat when I suck him in. I haven’t done this much lately. Mostly something cursory to get him ready for “lift-off” but he doesn’t usually need much. the angle is tough, though, so it’s not too long before I straighten up, pumping him slowly with my hand.` With my skirt bunched in his hand he can finally see that I passed on the underwear. Without preamble he slides a finger along me and directly inside. God, I had no idea I was so wet. Neither did Tim. His throat catches in a wet noise of its own. Looking into my eyes he’s slow adding the second finger. When the fingers of his other hand slide over my clit my head snaps back and my hand convulses on his dick. His lips are at my neck, struggling to reach a nipple but we’re all tangled up. I want him in me now. All the way, and it won’t be a problem. I’m dripping but he’s stuck in his ankle-height pants and I’m impaled on his hand. He pulls and pushes and circles my clit and I almost don’t care, just want to come, damn the consequences. I hold on to one tiny particle of my competitive spirit and manage to ride it. No finesse, though, there’s not enough focus for that. I pull myself away from him, fingers scraping out of me without ceremony. Two steps across the kitchen to grab a chair and set it back down beside Tim.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I'll be damned if I can find it now but I remember reading a blog post about the effectiveness of orgasm in reducing pain during labor. The woman brought her Hitachi Magic Wand to the birthing center and gave herself genuine relief! I love that story. The writer in question is Susie Bright. Why I didn't start off the Resource Room by recommending her we may never understand. I'm doing it now, though!

Susie Bright has forgotten more about sex, sexuality, sexual revolution, gender, politics, love and acceptance than I may ever know. She edited a series of anthologies that I credit with the majority of my orgasms for over a decade. She hosts an audio series with some of the most interesting people and topics I can imagine. She has a blog where all of a sudden she'll teach you a history lesson wrapped up in a political rant swaddled in a sexy story and leave you laughing and crying all at once. Seriously, do you like any or all of Jimi Hendrix, lesbians, strippers, Woodstock, San Francisco, burlesque or groupies? Susie Bright covers all those in one blog post. She and her daughter, Athena, once wrote a sex advice column together even! You can follow her on Facebook and Twitter. You can buy her books and games and other innovations. I urge, encourage, even beg you to support her in every way as she is now and ever has been a pioneer in talking about sex.

I created this site because I started writing about sex and women kept writing to me, "Thanks for this, no one I know ever talks about it."

Monday, September 13, 2010

I have never fallen asleep during sex. I have fallen asleep during conversations, during television shows, during classes, at my desk, on the floor of an airport, in various forms of transportation but never during any act of or leading up to sex.

At least with other people.

In part this may be due to lucky choice of partners. I lived with a guy who could fall asleep mid-sentence. Our bedroom was set up with the TV alongside the bed so we'd spoon to watch things. At some point he'd say, "I'm going to sleep now." As little as 30 seconds later something funny might happen on screen and I'd laugh and mention it to him only to find him absolutely dead asleep and unwakeable. It was like a circus trick...in the world's most boring circus.

I have punked out on myself, though. Once I actually get into bed I'm on a relatively tight schedule. If I go to sleep within 15 minutes or so I'll get the requisite 7+ hours sleep that keep me from being a monster. (I have a dog. I live alone. More than 8 hours of sleep are a thing of the past because I must do both the last walk of the night at 11pm and the first walk of the morning at 6:30 after my shower.) Sometimes I'll get a hankering and I'll think, "Well, you could just rub one out really quick before you go to sleep. You don't have to read a chapter of [insert name of intense, highbrow novel here to make me look good] tonight."

Here's the thing, though, don't you find that when you're tired there's no quick about it? I can't quite concentrate and then I'm moving slowly and the body isn't responding because, again, of the tired which means it's going to take longer and you're already lying down and Zzzzzzzzzzz. Only the light is shining in your face and your neck is all cricked up weird and you've got the outline of an erotic anthology imprinted on your right cheek.

Or is that just me?

No, really, is that just me? Have you ever fallen asleep and disappointed yourself or someone else? Misery loves company and this morning? I'm a little miserable.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Kaley has to wonder sometimes if being independently wealthy would be just as boring as this. Today has included the longest meeting ever recorded about nothing (by her, on a laptop with a barely functional S key), a completely unnecessary conversation with a co-worker about a child’s toilet training, 23.5 emails confirming things that had already been confirmed and coverage of more people’s phones than she could count. She’s no stranger to work, she’s willing to do nearly anything, but this one, somehow, seems to be the most boring one ever.At 2:30 there’s a meeting called for nearly everyone but her. That’s enough to make a girl believe in intelligent design. Suddenly the hallway is free of idle chatter (“Kaley? My kid wants those in green, not blue. We have to find the green!”) and prying eyes (“Oooo, shopping? If you see any deals on Lucky Jeans, size 14, let me know!”). It’s just her and Brenda, the temp working on a data entry project. She figures she has at least half an hour, perhaps even forty-five minutes given the chatterbox who’s chairing this thing. It takes 10 minutes to clear her email inbox and 7 to return phone calls. Sure, there are plenty of things she could be doing to get ahead on her responsibilities but, frankly, she just doesn’t have it in her. They’ll still be there when the meeting is over and if she polishes them off someone will only give her more. Why be efficient when things are going to go that way?There has been talk of getting a proper IT professional into the office. It’s revolved around the relative benefits of having someone to reboot printers, clean trackballs and hit Control + Alt + Delete mostly. Of course someone brought up the question of spyware. She wasn’t worried about it cutting back on her cutthroat Ebay auction participation. A ‘bot couldn’t tell the difference between shopping for a bigwig’s child’s latest desire and her own need for waterproof boots in a daisy pattern. It probably would happen but, flying spaghetti monster-willing, not until after she had moved on to greener cubicles. Because at times like this she liked to read smut at work.It had been an accident, really. One minute she was, as a guilty pleasure, perusing the latest gossip on a particularly fit teen idol. The next she hit a link and there it was. Fanfiction. Some of it was terrible. Some of it was surprisingly good. Most of the good stuff was pretty darned steamy! She spent approximately half an hour wondering if the actors in question would be creeped out by depictions of them slathering each other with honey or dropping trou in famous museums. Then someone called her and asked her to come down the hall and clean the wax out of The Boss’s hearing aids and she decided it didn’t matter. Yesterday she’d been halfway through the first part of a fic where the rogueish sidekick seduced the hero in a dorm room and introduced him to the finer points of being second banana, if you will. That had been another revelation. She hadn’t expected the male on male stories, slash fic they were called, to be so intriguing and arousing. It made sense, though. She was a fan of penises and what they could do so in this case, the more the merrier! Just as she was getting to the penisy parts her phone rang. It was the receptionist with a mystery caller wondering if she could handle it. She could and she spent the next 49 minutes of her day being called a liar, cheat, racist, insidious underminer of American values by a lovely old lady from Arkansas who’d just read something on “The Google” about The Boss. So today she was determined to give herself the gift of finishing that story. She deserved it and she had the receipt in her pending file for someone else’s colonoscopy prep supplies to prove it. This particular story was by one of the better writers, a young woman getting her degree in Ancient History in New Zealand. Kaley slipped back into the narrative just as that sidekick was running a finger along the seam of the hero’s jeans. Soon tongues were wrestling and bedside hand lotion was being liberally applied to hastily donned condoms. She squirmed self-consciously in her swivel chair as the hero was pressed, firmly but lovingly, face down on a squeaky dorm-issue bed. She glanced nervously behind her when the rogue’s steel-hard cock pressed for entrance and she nearly jumped out of her seat when the phone rang. One ring and a hang up.And her heart was still pounding. She felt self-consciously squishy in her sensible cotton panties. “Hey Brenda?”“Yeah Kale?” Brenda replied without looking away from her spreadsheets.“I’m going to scoot to the ladies’ if anyone asks. OK?”“Sure thing. Don’t hurry.”Kacey snorted at the thought, checked to be sure she had her key card and strode purposefully into the hallway. Though the offices were pretty swanky you had to go out into a public hallway to use the ladies’ room. It had standard issue sickly pink tile and six stainless steel stalls, half of which had doors you had to lift up with your foot in order to latch shut. One of the fluorescent lights near the back was failing so it flickered in a way that made you feel like you were somewhere between a rave and an interrogation. Kaley went all the way down to the last stall, surreptitiously checking for feet under the other five doors. Thankfully there were none so she used her toe to force the door into a locked position. Her plan, if she could be said to have one, at this point was just to give herself a little jolt, enough to bring her mind back to an officey kind of place. First she tried pinching her nipples but her slightly padded bra made that too muted to do the trick. She tried again harder but it still wasn’t enough. Suddenly she realized that, if anyone else were to come in, they might wonder why her feet were pointing the wrong direction so she turned around. As she shrugged off her suit jacket the bra’s stiff lace edging scraped her left areola. She swallowed a moan. She hung up the jacket and shifted around experimentally to see if she could repeat the scraping. It was nice but too teasing so she reached into her v-neck shell and slid her index and middle fingers to either side of one peak. They were cold from the overzealous air conditioning and she almost laughed at the shock. She slid them deeper in until the pointed nub was nestled at the juncture of her fingers. Rhythmically, she squeezed. Holding that there she went in from the bottom of her shirt and under her bra to the other one. Wasting no time she savagely squeezed it between thumb and fingers, giving it a twist to boot. Then she slid both palms to cover the whole breast and judged their weight. Not too small, not enormous but satisfying to hold. The pleasure of it made her cunt muscles contract in an offbeat kind of rhythm. Keeping one hand inside her shirt she used the other to shimmy her subdued, straight skirt up to her waist. Her pantyhose were a little sticky with polyester-induced sweat but once she’d wormed her hand under the militant waist band it felt sort of comforting. At first she stayed on the outside of her practical cotton-crotch briefs. She still thought this encounter wasn’t going anywhere. As with the bra before, stimulation through the cloth was nice enough but enticing rather than definitive. Like one bite of a candy bar it wasn’t nearly enough. She navigated the top of her panties and went straight to her opening to gather up some of that juice inspired by the hot story she’d been reading. She had to spread her legs a little wider to get enough room in the tights to do it, too. By the time she pulled that moisture up to her demanding clit her hand was nearly cramping from the effort of fending off her hose. She yanked the other hand out of her shirt and used it to hold the girdle of them away from her, creating an erotic little tent for the ministrations. There was plenty of room now to draw a line from top to bottom of her pussy over and over again. It was awkward, sure, leaning one shoulder against the pastel tile, thighs tense from pleasure and to keep her low-heeled pumps from sliding on the floor. She let her head sag to the side and her cheek touched the cool wall. Kaley knew she must look foolish but it felt wonderful so she leaned into it, laying one whole side of her face against the oppressive pinkness of it. Her tent-making hand slid further down. She gripped her thigh and used her forearm to hold the persistent spandex away. Turning slightly she rested her forehead against the wall as she realized this was no quick, preventive measure. She needed to come and she needed to do it quickly. She wished it was the sidekick’s long, thick fingers stirring around inside her. He’d be rough in a way she needed for speed. In his honor she managed two fingers right up to the knuckle and pumped them in and out a few times to fully coat them. When they came out she pinched her clit experimentally. It seemed like something he would do even though she’d never tried it before. It felt good but kind of dangerous. She pinched again then rubbed then more pumping. A warning went off in her head, she knew she didn’t have time to savor this new discovery, she had to get back and she didn’t want to be interrupted and sent back to square one arousal-wise. Eyes closed, back arched a little, she pictured a girthy, rogueish steely cock pressing against a begging asshole. Three fingers, strong to the point of being vicious but well lubricated flew over her clit. Involuntarily her mouth opened. She had to work to keep her gasps inaudible. That moment where she know she was at the point of no return was victorious for her. Her arm kept moving as the million nerves inside that tiny button bloomed with delight and then, almost too good to be true, she tipped over the edge. Her whole pelvis clutched and clutched. She had to gently put her fingers back inside herself and hold her palm tight against her labia or she thought she might fall apart. Rolling around she put her back to the wall and just breathed.For the first time that day she smiled. No, grinned.10 minutes later, hands washed, skirt straightened, silk shell firmly tucked in, she returned to her desk. “Anything?” she called to Brenda.“Just missed a call from Dragon Lady. Sorry.” Brenda replied.“On my way. Thanks.” she turned on her heel and left, still smiling.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

In honor this being Back To School Week here in New York (or, rather, Back to School DAY as the kid folk will go today then have two days off for Rosh Hashannah) it seems only appropriate that the resource for today be Scarleteen.

Not being a teen or actively raising one I haven't spent a ton of time on the site myself. I can say, though, that every sex blogger who I have ever heard respond to a question about good sexuality resources for teens has spoken immediately of Scarleteen. The team over there has worked to answer questions thoughtfully, to include all types of people, and to make it easy to ask the hard questions.

I do think it's important that kids feel comfortable asking anything of their parents. However, I don't think all kids will feel that comfort regardless of how open and welcoming their parents are on any topic. I also think that learning how to find answers on one's own, from reliable sources, is a valuable skill to have. Scarleteen is, from what I've seen and heard, the very model of a reliable source. I encourage we children of all ages to support and utilize the site to its fullest.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Over at 117 Hudson I posted my progress on the things I wanted to do for the Year of Yes. A kindly reader noticed that I wanted to get a massage this year (and seriously, you guys, this year is running out). She was planning to go to a spa near our homes this weekend and invited me to tag along. I'd read about this place but never gone.

Massages are relatively expensive everywhere, I guess. (Want to let me know how expensive they are in your area?) Here the going rate is right around $100 in a spa, $180 and up for private in-home treatment. Now I know that the masseurs deserve that kind of dough. I know how long and complex their training is and, given what they're doing for me, they're worth every penny. It's hard to justify that kind of outlay on feeling good, right? Well, it is for me. It's a crying shame, too. If money were no object I'd go at least once a month and I'd be the better for it.

Money is an object, though, which means that the time in between massages is long enough to breed forgetfulness. I forget how great it feels to have someone be so nice to you, how seriously delicious it is to be required to just let go. I didn't completely burst into tears or anything but I think that was only because crying would have been effortful and it was so much nicer to just relax.

This weekend's massage was a Swedish one. Elizabeth, the masseuse, asked me if I had any areas she should concentrate on. I told her that my shoulders, achilles tendons and calves were suffering from the increased dog walking. She applied hot towels to those areas. Bliss! The massage wasn't especially deep but it was almost like being suspended in water...or...jello, I don't know but I started to feel a little weightless. I chose Swedish because it was the least expensive ($95) 60 minute massage on the menu. I think next time I might save enough for a deep tissue massage ($120). The only time I've had one of those I left feeling almost drunk. I guess that sort of massage releases toxins and helps release more tension. It's a fantastic feeling!

Despite feeling like I can't afford another massage right away I'm eagerly collecting information about where I can go and what treatments I can experience next. Apparently there's a great place in San Francisco I should try. Maybe one of the sort of militant Korean massages in Los Angeles? Apparently the Canyon Ranch chain is glorious. I want to try them all!

What kinds of things do you do for your body? Massages? Mani-pedis? Yoga class? Other? Do you struggle with the cost-benefit analysis? How do you achieve that balance and give yourself what you deserve?

Friday, September 3, 2010

This is where they lived. In the smooth stroke of his hand along the side of her face. In their feet stacked boy-girl, boy-girl and toe to sole rubbing short strokes back and forth. In the rise and fall of breath bringing their skin together and apart, together and apart. In her breath condensing on the sleek muscled skin inside his bicep. His breath stirring her hair, tickling the nape of her neck, making her smile. In the gentle but insistent warming of his groin against the curve of her bottom.

When they left this place they were undone. Not useless, still able to go about the necessary business of life but somehow not quite living.

Which, if you think about it too long, isn’t right. It’s not healthy.

And they’d thought about it. They knew.

But how do you convince yourself to leave home? Even a bad home? Isn’t home, by definition, the place you’d be a fool to leave?

In the spirit of balance they’d both tried to leave once.

When she had left he called her within the week, refusing to believe she meant to stay away. His low chuckle and urgent almost-whisper like a fishing line reeling her back. The words immaterial, the emotion like cool water poured down her gullet on a hot day. She just kept swallowing. She was back home before her lips dried.

She returned the favor when he left but she only lasted 2 days. She didn’t use any words at all, simply sat on the stoop across from his house in the morning. He saw her and felt as though he had no other choice. Neither of them went to work that day.

One night she woke up. The way you wake up when your breath has stopped and only waking up will remind it to start again.

On sleep heavy feet she thumped into the kitchen and found him leaning against the counter, spoon in one hand, ice cream in the other. Both unused, his gaze was trained out the moonlit window, his breath came shallow and heavy.

She fit her lips to the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

He turned his head a little further away.

Surprised, her tongue slipped out and licked along sinew to jaw bone. She tasted salt and pulled back, not abruptly but in one sure movement.

For this he turned and faced her full on. His tears blatant.

She drew breath…

…and he kissed her, mouth working while he found the counter with his fingers and set down the frigid pint and spoon. Sliding those to the side he pressed her back to the cupboards and walked his fingers up her ribs, spreading them wide to encase her. It took all the leverage she could muster with her hands planted on his shoulders to pull back and see him.

He stared.

She knew.

And she wriggled desperately out of her pajama bottoms so he could boost her to the countertop.

His boxers fell and he hardened against the smooth inside of her thigh. Her heels dented his skin and the joints in her hips popped gently. Their breathing quickened bringing skin to skin over and over. His stubble grazed her arm, her head rolled against the cabinet doors while her fingers held his hips close.

And, before either of them really decided to begin it was over. Her hands fell back against the formica, his forehead banged against pressboard. She let the momentum pull her head to the side and kissed his cheek lightly.

After a few deep breaths they gathered themselves together. They left pajamas and boxers there on the floor, put the ice cream away and paraded silently back to the bedroom.

Each covering a separate side of the bed they studied the ceiling. Finally his palm slid across the top sheet and he covered her hand so they could sleep.

In the morning they were alone again, washed in sunlight and feeling slightly burned.

Curled around her pillow to face him she decided she had to be brave.

“We…”

“…can’t live this way.”

We already aren’t, she thought.

“I know how hard it was before and that we couldn’t do it but I…”

We aren’t living. Even that thrilling, dangerous, way we used to live, where we were killing ourselves slowly, and extremely happily I might add, we aren’t even doing that. And I thought that at some point we would move on, move on to a new life, to something grown up and evolved. I thought that we had to get through this life to get to that one and that, because I couldn’t breathe when you were gone, that we would do that living together. But we don’t. We aren’t. I think I’m breathing but I can’t tell and I don’t care. And I need to go and you can’t follow me. I want you to. I want you to pin me here and keep me forever but you can’t, please don’t follow me because I don’t want to die this way. I love you. Remember that I love you. And to breathe.

“…so you should probably go.”

Self conscious in only her flimsy camisole she gathered the clothes she’d worn the previous day and put them on in the bathroom.

By the time she surfaced he had located a pair of jeans for himself and folded her pajama pants from the kitchen floor. Handing them to her was awkward and made them smile, which helped.

She tried to get his keys off the ring with hers and broke a nail to the quick. He reached for the hand, to comfort her, and she quickly substituted the key ring.

After that was done there was the obligatory blank staring until the wind blew some papers off his desk and she startled.

With a head ducking smile she opened the door and hit the hallway.

Outside, on the stoop, she closed her eyes to the sun for a moment and inhaled.

Now, this was where she would live. In the warmth of the sunshine on the naked spot on her chest that her scarf didn’t cover. In the sound of the children in the schoolyard down the street. In the smell of bacon from the diner on the corner. In the bounce of her hair on her shoulders as she jogged down the steps and off toward home.